


I Gave You All

by Quilly



Series: Kingdombent [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Kingdombent 413 Extra, Kingdombent Prequel, Multi, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Unfinished, but i don't have the energy, so this was supposed to be Troll Twilight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 13:31:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18447569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: In the glory days of the troll race, a royal hedonist and a scrappy revolutionary meet.Or, the Grand Highblood and Signless Sufferer had a past, once.





	I Gave You All

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 413! Take this, it's been moldering in my docs for too long. It is incomplete and fragmented, but I wanted y’all to see it. 
> 
> TW for Homestuck-typical gore mention.

==>Kurloz: Go for a walk

 

Your name is Kurloz Makara and you’re high as a wiggler’s paper sky-sail.

 

You’ve done this on account of you being BORED OUT OF YOUR MIND. So might as well have some adventure OUT OF MIND, right? Right. You chuckle at your own clever thought and slouch down the street, all admiring of how the peasants part for you. It ain’t in you to kill ‘em tonight. ‘sides, Meenah don’t take too kind to you slaughtering ALL her citizens. Gotta leave some for the worship and tax-paying, what she says. Even if it is FUNNY to see ‘em run and scream.

 

There’s a crowd all big and you plop yourself down under a tree what’s shady to watch.

 

“You don’t make any sense,” someone is complaining. “How are we going to overthrow our highblood oppressors without bloodshed?”

 

Your ear flicks and twitches. Any other night you’d be PUTTING THE FEAR OF GOD in these pissbloods, but you’re interested. How, indeed? (This is some good toke, you’ve got to remember to give compliment to your supplier.)

 

“You’re not listening,” a voice answers, a voice what’s raspy and loud and yet doesn’t sound angry (not too angry, anyhow, maybe annoyed). “It’s impossible to do without _any_ bloodshed, but what I’m saying is that there’s no need to go ookbeast-crazy and slaughter them all.”

 

“Why not?” a voice interrupts. “They’d do it to us in a pump-beat if the Empress decided we weren’t worth keeping alive!”

 

“So, what, we sink to their level?” the shouty voice says. You tilt your head. The motion up and attracts some attention, and you grin, showing full fang. A ripple of fear through the crowd, that’s what warms your pump to see.

 

And then there’s the scramble, tiny lowbloods like worthless ants getting out of the way of your eye, and you throw your head back and _laugh_ because this is what you come among them to see, this is what you live on, you hear your title screamed and whispered and spoken like an apocalypse dread, you love it you love it you LOVE IT.

 

You hear the voice, the shouty one, and lazily look the way it goes, see dark cloak and hood, see a kittytroll covering tracks and a mustardblood covering front, blink to yourself, wonder what you’re all dissatisfied about, then shrug and stand up. Ain’t no fun anymore now that everybody’s all gone.

 

You walk back the way you come and are too high to care that people run from you now more on the way back than the way in.

 

Boring.

 

==>Kankri: Pout

 

Your name is Kankri Vantas and basically your mom is gonna freak when she finds out who you just escaped from.

 

You concentrate on running, because you have Meulin pushing you from behind and Mituna leading from the front, but you wonder why he—the Grand Highblood—didn’t move, how long he was sitting there before someone noticed him. In all technicality, there’s no _official_ law that stops you from talking about negotiating peaceful protests, since it’s not destroying public property or killing anyone or even all that treasonous, but the unspoken directive is more than enough for some trolls, and especially the leader of the Mirthful cult.

 

Getting back into camp without incident is usual, but it’s no reason for any of you to be complacent; Meulin stays outside to run a patrol around the borders of your current hideout while you and Mituna collapse near the fire Mother has going, panting.

 

“That wath,” Mituna wheezes (like a nerd), “too clothe.”

 

“What was too close?” Mother asks, putting a bowl of hot soup in your hands. You shove a spoonful in your mouth and don’t answer. She looks at Mituna, who is glaring at you. “What?”

 

“Oh, nothing,” Mituna says, “only, the Grand Highblood wath there at the rally today.”

 

Mother’s face goes white, but you hurriedly swallow.

 

“He didn’t do anything,” you say before she can start in. “He didn’t even move. Just sat under a tree.”

 

That does not stop her from checking you over for scratches or possibly concealed stab wounds. You roll your eyes.

 

“There weren’t any other clowns, I promise,” you say. “Just him.”

 

“He could have killed you,” she says, and you bite back your disparaging comment. You’re not a six-sweep-old. She’s right, this could have been serious if the guy hadn’t been so mellowed-out on something tonight.

 

“But he didn’t,” you say, as Meulin comes back in. “We got out of there just fine.”

 

“And no one followed us,” Meulin says, fetching her own soup.

 

Mother has a face like a thunderhead and you wearily know what she’s about to say. But, curiously, she simply ruffles your hair and sits down.

 

“I’m glad you aren’t hurt,” she says, and you blink.

 

“Uh…thanks.”

 

“How long should we wait for the heat to die off before we go out again?” Mituna asks.

 

“I think it’s time we moved,” Mother says calmly, and you throw up your hands.

 

“I’m finally getting these morons to listen, Mother, we can’t just—”

 

“Good idea,” Meulin says.

 

“We can leave at latht light,” Mituna says, and you slurp down the last of your bowl and stand, stalking towards the stream to wash out your bowl. They’re justified. You know that. But you were so _close_ to making some progress here…

 

Well, not like anybody’s going to listen now, now that the Grand Highnookchafe made an appearance. You swear the guy gets off on scaring your potential followers—you mean—fellow oppressed parties. You’re the leader of jack-all, you don’t have followers.

 

You put your bowl back in silence and find a tree to climb, ignoring Mituna’s grumblings about how you’re acting like a “thpoiled child.” Whatever, he’s ugly and his lisp is stupid. You put your back against the trunk and lean your arm on one of your knees, your other leg swinging over open space. Your calmer, rational side tells you that Mituna is right and you need to stop pouting, and you tell it to go away.

 

“Hey.”

 

Meulin squirrels up the tree onto a branch near yours, laying on her stomach and smiling. You twitch your mouth at her and continue observing the sparse woodland.

 

“You know we have to go,” she says.

 

“I know.”

 

“But you’re still angry.”

 

“I’m not angry.”

 

She gives you a knowing grin. You roll your eyes and lean your head back against the trunk, letting out a discouraged sigh.

 

“Yes you are,” she says.  “It’s okay, Katkri.”

 

“This is the first town we’ve made any sort of progress in,” you murmur. “They’re angry. They’re scared. They wanted to fight for their freedom, finally. And now we have to leave.”

 

“Maybe this town is the furst,” she says, “but it won’t be the last.”

 

“If Mother has her way, it might be,” you say grumpily, and Meulin drops down onto your branch. It doesn’t even creak, solid as it is.

 

“We’re all trying to look out fur you,” Meulin says. “Porrim knows how impurrtent your work is to you. She won’t stop you.”

 

You glare at your hands. Meulin creeps closer and puts her claws under your chin, drawing your face up to look at her.

 

“We do have to leave,” she says, “but I purromise, we will come back fur these people when it’s safe.”

 

“Safe,” you scoff, and scratch at a scab on your arm. “Nowhere is ever safe for me.”

 

“Then we will make it safe,” Meulin says, steely, and then she giggles and kisses your nose. “Come down, pouty-pants. We need help packing up.”

 

You give it a minute after her footsteps fade before you climb down, resigned.

 

Whatever the Grand Highblood was doing there, you hope it doesn’t happen again. You can’t afford failure yet.

 

==>Kurloz: Plan

 

Coming down off your high is easy and slow. You’re cool with the world still, but feel better after you punch a clown in the face for the insolence of his smudged paint. Now he’s got a reason to be sloppy.

 

Your pan is far away as slaves serve you your morning meal, and you think careful on your experience this evening as you sip your Faygo.

 

Lowbloods preaching against “oppression” ain’t nothing new. You gotta do a good thorough culling ‘bout once every dozen sweeps so’s to keep them in their place. But you ain’t never heard of “peaceful protest” before. You scratch your noggin and chew on your grubs-n-cheese and if your underlings note the change they don’t run their gabs about it.

 

“You’re quiet, clownfish.”

 

Your eyes flick to take in Her Imperious Condescension and you incline your head. The fins what she brought with her look at each other and you can see the scandal in their eyes. You laugh to yourself. They don’t know the half of what you and Meenah get up to.

 

“Empress,” you rumble, and she parks her fine rump across from you, plucking the fork from your paw and digging into your meal. You let her and idly sip more purpledrank.

 

“None a that right now, I got a bonefish to pick,” she says, and waves her claws. Her entourage and your minions scurry. You take the fork back from where it’s lodged between her teeth and stick it in your mouth. She grins.

 

“Where you been tonight?” she asks.

 

“Out and about,” you say comfortably, leaning against your cushions.

 

“I told you I netted you to oversea the Fleet project,” she says, and you shrug.

 

“I ain’t got the first knowing about what to do concerning ships,” you say. “Get Darkleer on the project. That’s a troll what’s sweaty to please and got a nug full of gears what’ll suit you.”

 

“He’s on the prawnject. I said I wanted you in charge of it,” she corrects, and folds her arms, planting them on your low-sitting table and leaning forward with her hair all a mass and her eyes all sharp. “Where were you?”

 

You wave your hand. “Here and there.”

 

She smiles, then you feel the tickle of gold-plated steel on your throat as her trident snaps into her hands.

 

“When I tell you to do somefin,” Meenah says sweetly, grinning wide, eyes murder, “do it.”

 

You grin back and tilt your head back. The middle point digs all unpleasant in your skin. A cool bead runs all a-trickle down your throat.

 

“As you command,” you say, and the trident pulls away with a careless slash you gotta pull back to avoid. You ain’t got no plan to die yet.

 

“Don’t fishappoint me,” she says.

 

“I live to serve,” you say back. You exchange final smiles—her murder eyes are still on and you got an itch in your shoulders like you wanna return the favor—and she leaves. Soon as the door is shut you let it slide off your face like oil, leaning your chin against your fist.

 

Ain’t got no time to track down the shouty preacher with her putting you on babysitting duty. Not like anybody even knows what the Fleet is anyway; space travel ain’t exactly high on the public agenda. Takes psionic power away from the computer mainframes and heavy machinery, it’s been said. You seen the plans for the rigs; what the Empress got in mind for those trolls is more useful than number-crunching any day. Explore the galaxy and spread the good word of the Messiahs, that’s what’s got your eyes on the sky.

 

You just ain’t got the first clue what she wants you to be in charge for anyway.

 

You lumber to your balcony and look over the imperial city with a smoke tucked in your mouth. You are calm. You are FINE. It’s up and unsettling, what it is; you ain’t gone a full day without killing nobody in perigees, or at least ordering an execution, a raid, _something_. You’re distracted. Thinking on that preacher again. Never did look at his face, never saw more than a retreating cloak, only heard him say all of maybe two sentences. You forget trolls who’ve served you for sweeps. What’s so special about shouty?

 

You tap the ash off your smoke and feel a cool breeze against your bare arm.

 

“Gonna be a hot day,” you say.

 

“Yes,” the ghost says.

 

“What now?” you ask her.

 

“You must avoid the preacher,” she says, and you look on her. You ain’t got the first clue if she’s a real ghost or not, but you ain’t never touched her and never caught her neither. She’s come to you in your quiet moments since wigglerhood, come to you with advice you always followed, and she made you great. She’s made many trolls great, she says, though many never listened and got there anyhow. You laughed long and hard then at her expression. Looked funny in her china-doll face.

 

“Why?” you ask. She purses her lips, red-as-clay lips.

 

“You’ve never demanded an explanation before,” she says. “Do you really need one now?”

 

You lounge back in your chair, blowing smoke rings. “He’s funny.”

 

“And he will destroy you,” she says. You blink, eyes narrow, but don’t move.

 

“Destroy me,” you repeat.

 

“If you seek him out, yes,” she says. “He has a destiny. You will not interfere before it is time.”

 

You take a pull and blow smoke in her direction. “You ain’t never sounded so heated about nothing you ever told me.”

 

She flushes, just a little, burgundy pooling in the tips of her ears and the swells of her cheeks. Even a little down on her chest, ain’t that cute. Smooths down the sheath of her dress, curls of red and darker red in patterns like gears. Sounds real, but could be ghostliness messing with your aural clots.

 

“This troll is very important,” she says, voice neutral. “It is imperative that he fulfils his duties, and when the time comes, you do, as well.”

 

You lean head against fist again. “Then tell me true, sister, why it matters whether or not the shouty one and I meet before it’s time I kill him. I don’t wanna kill him right now.”

 

“But you will,” she says, resigned, limp. “Someday and soon, he will rise in strength, and you will need yours.”

 

“So I’m supposed to remove his nug from his shoulders?” you ask, because girl is sending you some mixed signals here. She says something in a language you don’t know. Sounds like she’s swearing at you.

 

“At the right time,” she says, irritably. “If you kill him now, trollkind is doomed. If you speak to him now, club him to death now, you will sentence your people to die.”

 

You yawn. She stomps her dainty little foot, that’s a fun reaction, ain’t never got that one before.

 

“Will you please take this seriously?” she asks, shrill-like. You yawn again.

 

“Serious as the grave, sister,” you say. “Don’t kill the shouty one until the proper time. Got it.” You tap out the ash. “Can you be up and telling me when the proper time is, then?”

 

“When he is condemned by the voice of the ones he loves,” she says, “then it will be your time. When trollkind shouts for his slaughter, it will be your privilege.”

 

You shrug and blow another smoke ring. “Sounds fair.” Democratic, but whatever, it’s different and you like different.

 

She steps back, looks relieved. “We have one more visit, you and I, and then all your tasks will be complete.”

 

You wave her off, and she huffs a tiny bit. You watch her fade from the corner of your eye.  Ghost or not, she’s fun to play with.

 

So far that’s two ladytrolls in your life telling you to stay away from the preacher (if indirectly on behalf of the one fish witch you’ll ever take orders from). You sit with your near-gone smoke in your teeth, looking over a city bolting down for full morning, thinking to yourself that ain’t nothing in this whole city, nothing in its markets or curiosity tents, what caught your interest in sweeps of living here like the voice of a troll what you heard for all of five minutes.

 

You stub out the smoke and retreat back into your respite block.

 

==>Kankri: Preach

 

Well, no duh, that’s about all you do. It’s your hobby. For whatever reason, you get your kicks by yelling at trolls to be kinder to each other. This is your life. These are your choices.

 

To be fair, you usually don’t mind it so much. You especially like it when you can mostly get a group of wigglers, because if they’re young enough you can get a wide variety of kids all gathered together who listen and more or less play nice. But no. That couldn’t be tonight’s crowd. Tonight’s crowd is adults, idiotic adults with loud mouths and dumb opinions. They come from the green-teal range today. Usually that range is more polite and amenable—certainly easier to talk to than the redder and bluer bloods. That’s kind of casteist talk, to be honest, but you’ve learned that the way society is structured, sometimes the stereotypes are true.

 

Not tonight, because tonight hates you.

 

“Of course I’m serious,” you say for the eightieth time. “Look, it’s simple—the hemocaste system is a crappy and broken construct. It’s the literal worst. A person’s blood color—”

 

“But it determines lifespan,” a troll who’s actually been trying all night to understand pipes up. “Rustbloods don’t live as long, bluebloods live forever. Bluebloods have more time to gather wealth and power. How can we overthrow them when we die faster?”

 

“And that’s the question, right there,” you say. “The way things are right now, we can’t. But it’s not about who can kill who faster, it’s about changing minds—”

 

And there they go, another wave of shouts and “you don’t understand” and “you’re just a kid” and some not-so-nice comments about your hygiene, which, come on, rude. The few faces in the crowd that you think you were connecting with are shrinking back, looking scared. You sigh, rub your face, and stand.

 

“Look, we’re getting nowhere tonight,” you say. “Just…go home and think about what I said, alright?”

 

Grumbling, most of the people leave. A few stragglers, including the oliveblood who tried to talk to you earlier about life spans, hesitate before you turn your back and start walking away. Mituna follows, and soon Meulin comes loping out of the brush.

 

“Bad luck tonight, KK,” Mituna says, and you scrub your hand through your hair, wishing you could take the hood off but not wanting to risk it out in the open.

 

“Every night, it’s like one step forward and two steps back,” you grumble. “I don’t know why I keep trying.”

 

“Beclaws your message needs to be purred,” Meulin says, and you put your arm around her, leaning on her a little bit.

 

“So I keep telling myself,” you say. She kisses your cheek.

 

The walk back to camp is silent while you brood. At least the Grand Highblood wasn’t there this time, you think. Not that you’ve seen him since that one time a few weeks ago, but still. There are a few minds in this town you know you can reach, if you just try a little harder without a distraction like that.

 

After dinner you go for a walk. Meulin is hunting and Mituna is nursing an oncoming migraine, and you tell Mother you’ll be fine.

 

“I’m armed and I won’t go too far,” you say as you equip yourself with your long-staffed scythe. “Promise.”

 

Mother hesitates. “Just keep within shouting distance,” she says, and you smile, nod, and leave the abandoned cabin that’s serving as camp for now. You can shout quite loudly, so you decide to walk down the river for a while.

 

You stop when you get to a copse of willow trees and the cabin is a smudge down the bank, taking in the lightening sky and the moonset. In a lot of ways, you miss the desert you and Mother lived in for the first few sweeps of your life. The sun was hot and savage, but the sunrises were beautiful.

 

“Thought I’d find you here,” a growly voice says, “LITTLE PREACHER.”

 

You nearly jump out of your skin.

 

Moving quickly, you swing your scythe so the haft blocks your body, the blade pointing outwards, as you watch the shifting mass of shadow in the willow trees. The Grand Highblood parts the branches with a sweep of his massive arm, and you go dry-mouthed.

 

He is taller than any other troll you have ever seen, and already more ancient, though his skin is taut with youth and strong young muscles bulge in his arms. His face is smeared with paint in a sharp-toothed grin, his hair a wild mass of dark curls, and you are fairly certain he has dried blood under his claws.

 

You take careful steps back as he advances, keeping your weapon up, ready to jump into the river if need be to escape.

 

“You were looking for me?” you ask. The Grand Highblood laughs, a sound that rolls up from his chest.

 

“Sure as sure,” he says comfortably. “GOT MY INTEREST UP AND PRICKED. Little preacher.”

 

He continues walking towards you. You keep backing up, hoping for the love of gog you don’t trip on a root.

 

“Seeing as how my curiosity is athirst,” he says, and sits heavily on the ground, leaning against another tree and still grinning, “PREACH AT ME.”

 

You stare. Is he serious?

 

“I’d rather not,” you say, and he laughs.

 

“Little casteist yourself, ain’t you,” he chuckles. “I AIN’T IN A KILLIN’ MOOD. Not for the exact moment. PREACH.”

 

The expectance in his voice as he issues a command scratches barbs of chucklevoodoo down your spine. It’s not your first experience with it, though you’ve never felt it that strongly, and that was just a deft, almost unconscious spike of it. You are actually nervous of how badly he could hurt you if he tried.

 

You don’t sit down and you don’t lower your weapon. But you do preach.

 

“Is it casteist, or just smart?” you ask. “You in particular have a reputation for bloodshed.”

 

He inclines his head like a little bow in your direction.

 

“I’ll admit to that,” he says. “GO ON. Tell me all about my WICKED WAYS.”

 

“I don’t need to tell you for you to know,” you say. “Because even though you enjoy crushing others, even though you love being on top, you know it’s not right, don’t you?”

 

His smile goes down a fraction. “Explain.”

 

“Every time you call someone a dirtblood or a pissblood, you get a little thrill, don’t you?” you say, and you’ve got to be honest, you don’t know where this is coming from, but you—you feel like you just _know_ this guy. The longer he looks at you, the more you get the niggling feeling that you’ve met him before, met him and gotten to know him. “You wouldn’t feel a thing about it if you didn’t know, on some unconscious level, that the troll you’re putting down is a person just like you. If your positions were reversed, how much fun you would have punching up instead of down.”

 

His smile is almost gone now, but he doesn’t look angry. Puzzled, maybe.

 

“You’ve been taught your whole life that ruling over us is your divine right,” you continue. “In my mind, at least, there’s nothing divine about it. It’s got everything to do with your strength.”

 

He flexes his arm, then, and you stop.

 

“Not divine,” he muses. “STRENGTH, YOU SAY?” He picks up a rock from the ground, and with a little grunt crushes it in his hand. He shows you the gravel. “Strength is a gift from the Messiahs,” he says. “AIN’T THAT DIVINE?”

 

You take a little time to consider that, and he laces his fingers, seemingly content to wait you out.

 

“I’m a little fuzzy on a point of cultist doctrine,” you say. “How was the universe created?”

 

His eyebrows rise.

 

“Little preacher,” he says, his eyes luminous in the shadows of the tree, “ARE YOU UP AND ASKING FOR A SCHOOLFEEDING?”

 

You nod. He huffs an amused snort.

 

“In the beginning,” he says, “ALL WAS STARDUST.”

 

You sit down, your scythe across your knees.

 

“Then, along came those WICKED NINJAS what said LET THERE BE LIGHT. And it was the dopest mess and MUCH REJOICING was had.” He talks with his hands, you note, sweeping to show the breadth of the universe, the scope of rejoicing. For being huge his hands are still well-made, expressive. You try not to look at his hands too much after that thought crosses your mind. “The light did reveal THE UNIVERSE, which was all empty and glitter like what SPRINKLES OUR SKIES. The wicked ones up and said LET THERE BE AN OCEAN and it was so, but not so dope and there was much REVILING.”

 

You personally wonder what the Condesce thinks of that, but know better than to interrupt. The Grand Highblood has found the flow of his story now.

 

“And then,” he says, “the Messiahs up and said GET THAT WEAK SLOP OUTTA HERE and it was so that the UNHOLY WATERS RECEDED. They up and REJOICED, but soon got hells of BORED with what they made, and said, LET THERE BE COLOR.”

 

He takes fistfuls of the grass around him, not pulling it up, just grasping. “And it came to pass THAT ALL THINGS WHAT GROW IN THE GROUND burst into being, and they KICKED THE WICKEDNESS about it for ever until they GOT BORED.

 

“And it came to pass that they said LET THERE BE RIOT AND WORSHIP, and what we know as trolls CRAWLED FROM THE MUCK and were up and BLESSED. Purple was their skin AND PURPLE WAS THEIR BLOOD, and when they molted like what the Messiahs told ‘em THEY WALKED ON TWO LEGS and DID MIGHTY WORSHIP.”

 

“Only purple?” you ask, amused yourself, and the Grand Highblood fixes you with a dirty look.

 

“Did I say,” he says quietly, “THAT I WAS DONE?”

 

You remember who you’re talking to and shut up.

 

“There was a MIGHTY PARTY what the first trolls had, until soon there began to be HERETICS. Them heretics what SLANDERED THEIR LORDS retreated into the sea and HID THEIR FACES FROM THE MESSIAHS. Them heretics what DID NOT UNDERSTAND were cast out for the WICKED SIN OF IGNORANCE. All shades did their blood turn, SPOILED AND CORRUPT, the most broken of all CASTING OFF THEIR ROYAL BLUES and returning right to the MUD what they crawled from.” The Grand Highblood has a closed-eyed expression of ecstasy on his face now, and you’re not sure what’s more terrifying, that look on his face, or the fact that he believes every word he’s saying.

 

“THAT,” he growls, and you jump, “is how the universe got made.”

 

You stand. The Grand Highblood looks smug, like he’s daring you to refute what he knows as undeniable fact. And to be honest, it’s never a good idea to challenge a highblood’s religious views even when they are being non-violent like the Grand Highblood is being. But something about his story is off to you.

 

“If that’s the case,” you say, “how did the seadwellers become the top of the food chain?”

 

He chuckles. “Another story,” he says, “FOR ANOTHER TIME.”

 

You’re not sure if you’re being dismissed or not. You decide to leave and see what he does. He doesn’t get up to stop you, but:

 

“Little preacher.”

 

You stop, look over your shoulder. He grins wide and toothy.

 

“LET’S DO THIS AGAIN SOMETIME.”

 

You feel a shiver in your guts, half fear, and as you take the very long way home to make sure you’re not being followed, you realize the other half is anticipation.

 

You’ll have a compelling argument next time, you vow as you come back into sight of the cabin. You’re going to convince him of the _possibility_ of him being mistaken next time you see him. You will probably also die, but what does that matter? You’re going to die sooner or later anyway. There’s no way a mutant like you will live for too long once you’re found out, and you _will_ be found out sooner or later.

 

You casually suggest moving on when everyone makes it back to camp, and cite boredom for your reason. Mother looks at you and you know she suspects something else, but you’re afraid that if you tell them the truth, they’ll suggest something even more drastic than just moving.

 

A tiny, tiny part of you is actually excited to see him again one day.

 

==>Kurloz: Ponder

 

You ain’t got the first knowledge of space ships, but the sight is impressive. Even you know that, as you walk amongst the prototypes, every troll bowing in to his work as you pass.

 

“They are very near completion, Highblood,” Darkleer says, keeping stride, swelling like a proud lusus. You only pay him half mind. “I am estimating our first successful launch within a few perigees, and once those tests are concluded, the first full-sized battleship will be under construction within a sweep.”

 

“Good,” you grunt. You see that most of the welders are brownbloods and then wonder at your own observance. “And the Helmsmen?”

 

“Testing is still inconclusive there, though I’ve been informed that the Empress has supplied a type of biological technology that should work out the bugs,” Darkleer says. “She is most pleased with the direction of that aspect of the project.” The pride is palpable and slimy. You cast about a disinterested eye.

 

On accident you lock glance with a welder, who flinches out of startlement and drops her torch. You blink and she’s on the ground, holding her cheek, and over her stands the foreman, yelling at the top of his voice for the welder to get back to work. Your hand shoots out and grabs the foreman’s wrist.

 

You don’t know why you did that.

 

“Less time yelling,” you rumble. “MORE TIME BUILDING.”

 

“Yes, Highblood,” the foreman says with a shaky bow, and you don’t miss the filthy glare he shoots the welder, who’s gone back to her business with visible brown sweat on the back of her neck. You walk on, expecting to forget the encounter entirely.

 

“I apologize for that display,” Darkleer says to you. “Our welders can be so incompetent.”

 

“It ain’t just them,” you shrug. “FOREMEN OUGHT TO KNOW THEIR PLACE. One dropped torch ain’t a death sentence. NATURAL AWE AIN’T PUNISHABLE.”

 

“Of course,” Darkleer says, but his voice is empty. He don’t got a clue what you’re talking about. Not that you do, either.

 

“Looks right nice,” you say, and cast ocular at the window. Sky is full-dark. Might could try and find the shouty one if you’re quick. “If there ain’t nothing else. I’MMA SKEDADDLE.”

 

“Skedaddle?” Darkleer frowns. “But, Highblood, do you not wish to oversee this project personally?”

 

“I reckon,” you say, half-out the door, “YOU GOT IT HANDLED.”

 

Then out you slip and it’s sweet to taste freedom.

 

It’s been nights since last you and the preacher spoke. You figure if he’s smart he oughta move territory, but you know how to find him. Just gotta keep the aural clots perked.

 

You stroll through the bazaar, and trolls open before you like a sea what’s been parted. Sometimes it is right nice to not have to push through crowds. Other times it is a burden, for the information you want ain’t nobody gonna tell you freely.

 

You trudge on down to the lowblood side of town, keeping casual. Here there are psionics who wouldn’t mind throwing your royal blood to the mud, if only they could do it without getting caught. It took you many a long sweep to fight your way to the top. Ain’t no way they wouldn’t get caught. You think you might be safe enough and just listen.

 

Most of it’s the same kind of swill you expect—grocery lists, quadrant gossip, lusus-mounted little ones nipping at ankles and stealing overripe fruit from stands. Your guts stir for some mirth—a fire to their wooden dwellings, maybe. Some offering to your Messiahs from these heretics.

 

“—moved to some backwater village by the stone formation that looks like a bunch of bulges by the beach,” someone says, and you pretend to be studying a collection of worn shoes nearby, straining to hear. “I’m sure it’s the same guy.”

 

“He’s going to get himself culled here soon, if he doesn’t pipe down,” another voice rumbles. “And a whole lot of other people, too.”

 

“Well, I’m going,” the first voice says. “Maybe see if I can’t figure out his blood color.”

 

“Listen, what some hemo-anon freak with a death wish says isn’t any of our concern,” the second voice says all stern. “There’s food to get on the table and Imperial taxes to pay. We have work to do.”

 

“I’ll do it when I get back, I swear,” first voice protests, and you stop listening. You heard what you need.

 

You know the formation which was spoken of pretty well. A bunch of weird rock columns that look kinda like bulges? Yep. Won’t take more than an hour on a boat. You walk to the harbor and terrify a little sailboat’s captain into taking you on a jolly down the shore.

 

You stop off a mile or so away and get out of the boat, which turns tail as quick as the jittery captain and his cabin boy can get it turned. Then you walk. The columns like huge bulges are far at first, then come into view. You walk among them.

 

Lights among the columns. Voices. Many, then just one.

 

“You’re not listening,” the preacher says, all frustrated. “Systematic genocide is—”

 

“It’s exactly what they’re doing to us!” a troll yells. You settle down hidden behind a wide bulge and listen. “It’s what they’ve been doing for centuries!”

 

“So we ignore reason altogether?” the preacher challenges. “Alright, look, I’ll be the first one to admit that passively waiting for things to change is a terrible way to fight for your rights. But dishing out what they’ve been handing down doesn’t solve anything, it just starts a new cycle of oppression.”

 

“And why shouldn’t they be oppressed?” another troll asks. “It would serve them right.”

 

The preacher is silent.

 

“Because,” he says finally, slowly, “because—because if we continue that tradition of oppression…where does it stop?”

 

A murmur sweeps through the crowd.

 

“Say that we’re successful,” the preacher says. “Let’s say that we have a warmblooded empress. Or an actual functioning parliament that’s mainly greens and down. Let’s say that coldbloods live like warmbloods do now, starving, fighting for survival, unprotected by laws that say you can kill them at will with no consequences.”

 

A more pleased murmur.

 

“Then what does that leave you with?” he asks. “The nookwipe population hasn’t gone down any. It’s just changed colors. Our society isn’t better. It’s just flipped on its nose.”

 

“It’s better for us!” a troll says, and general laughter.

 

“But is it good for your moirail?” he asks, and silence. “Is it good for your matesprit? Your kismesis? Your auspistice? Your friends, if you have any that are coldblooded?”

 

You fold your arms and wait.

 

“That’s different,” someone says. “She’s my moirail. She’d be protected.”

 

“Well, like it or not, when you call for a reversal of the system, what you’re really asking for is for someone else’s quadrants and clade to suffer,” he says. “If we want a truly changed world—a world where nobody’s clade suffers, where everyone has access to the same rights and benefits—we don’t need a reverse hemocaste. We need—we need a circle. Not a spectrum.”

 

Troubled murmurs.

 

“I know there are some coldbloods out there listening right now,” he says, and you blink. Does he know? “And you’re not exempt from this conversation. What you need to do is to support your own quadrantmates, your hatefriends. Everyone lower than you needs your help. If you’re gonna climb over someone to get ahead, then you’d better reach right back around and help them up behind you.”

 

Interesting concept, little preacher, you muse.

 

“That’s it for tonight,” the preacher says, and he sounds exhausted even as his throatbox makes to be all shouty. “Go home. Think about what I said.”

 

The crowd disperses, and if they come your way, you will be seen. All a sudden you don’t want to be seen.

 

You steal off and think about what was said.

 

You ain’t had a quadrantmate before. Around drone season you either got exempt (the Church grants special privileges for its clergy) or you found some other desperate tool who needed your slurry and went to town. One-day stands were common in clown school, of all quadrants. You once passed in on some Mirthfuls doing a weird one-night auspisticism jam with one of the ship maintenance members. You were a kid once, and did dumb stuff.

 

But a quadrantmate what was a lowblood…what would that be up and like?

 

It ain’t ever happening, you say to yourself as you walk through the shallows. The daylight will be on you soon. Didn’t think that bit of your plan through. But even if it ain’t happening, you answer yourself, let’s take a fancy of pretend. What would it be like if…if maybe even the preacher was your moirail, for example.

 

Quit blushing, ain’t nobody here to see, you tell your heated-up cheeks.

 

But from a scientific way of thinking, if the preacher was your moirail, you’d theoretically do all to protect him. That’s what a palemate does, to your understanding. He calms you down. You keep other trolls away from him. Like one of them little birds what hangs around giant hornbeasts. Right?

 

Now say, you say to yourself, say that some blueblood done did away with your moirail whilst you were gone. Well, easy, you say back. You’d remove his head from his neck and play a merry tune with his spine. But the preacher done said that was wrong. Wrong or not, the preacher died, so what’s it matter?

 

You’re getting your pan tied up in knots and the sun is coming on. You retreat towards the nearby village. One of these idiots will let you crash for the day and not give you trouble.

 

You secure your lodging with minimal fuss on account of the owner of the hive running screaming for the hills, and make comfy in what blankets you find. Not as good as a ‘cupe but ain’t no lowblood recuperacoon what can hold you.

 

You drift off to sleep with the encounter with the welder and foreman replaying in the back of your pan.

 

==>

 

You’re sunburnt a bit when you make it back to your hive. And lo and behold, who could it be sitting in your favorite padded chair but the Empress, helping herself to your cheesy grubs.

 

“Empress,” you say mild-like, threading little needles of chucklevoodoo into the pans of her attendants so’s they scram. “Twice in two weeks? I’M FLATTERED.”

 

“Don’t be,” she says, and wipes her cheese-fingers off on your chair. “Darkleer shoaled me you skipped out early.”

 

“Didn’t much take Darkleer for a tattler,” you say, settling yourself down on the floor.

 

“The biggest,” Meenah says, and grins. “Where’d you go?”

 

“OUT,” you say. She looks over your sunburn, your dirty feet and gritty clothes, and rolls her eyes.

 

“Whale quit it,” she says. “I need you here.”

 

A prickle of uneasy displeasure rolls right over you. “What I do in my spare time ain’t no business of yours.”

 

“It is when my ships are going without superfishion,” Meenah says. “Cut out on me again, and I cut you out, reel perchmanent. Understand?”

 

“Of course,” you say, and nod your head a bit to add insult. She hates your little smug nods. “If you’re done, Empress, THEM’S MY SNACKS YOU’RE EATING.”

 

“Are they?” she says, wicked smile, legs crossed. “Come and get ‘em then, if they’re so important to ya.”

 

You know a come-on when you see one, and react appropriately.

 

==>Kankri: Don’t trip

 

Too late; you’re already picking dirt and grass out of your teeth from where you biffed it, Mituna’s badly-muffled wheezing giggles in your ears.

 

“Nithe going,” he says, the prickle of psionics on your skin letting you know what invisible force it is that’s setting you back on your feet. “I don’t think anyone elthe thaw that.”

 

“Dandy,” you say moodily. “Am I bleeding?”

 

“Little bit,” Mituna says, and you hold still while he thumbs away a few smears from your chin. “Rub thome more dirt on it to darken up the thcabth.”

 

Your mother will have a fit, you think grimly as you take his advice and slap some dirt onto your face, but it’s better than getting killed.

 

You and Mituna walk into the village market looking to kill some time. Mother is taking care of some business down at the docks, Meulin is watching camp, and you were bored, so into town you go tonight. It’s a slightly more well-to-do town than you’re used to, which is normal for coastal villages. Also normal are the higher blood castes going by in small retro carriages pulled by either lusii or what you are going to hope very, very hard are paid lowblood employees. They’re ridiculous contraptions, but you guess the point is to keep the highbloods’ feet out of the common dust. You make sure to duck your head every time one goes by, hoping it’ll be seen as a sign of deference rather than defense.

 

“Check thith out,” Mituna says, pulling you in front of a booth of flip phones (in the highblood vernacular; the lowblood term was probably too unwieldy to put on the sign).

 

“You have a good eye, sir,” the troll behind the booth says, also a yellowblood. “Latest models. They can take video recordings and store ‘em all on these little chips. Fewer dropped calls. Intuitive texting. Would make a nice gift for your moirail there.” The salestroll winks at you. Mituna goes bright yellow.

 

“He’th not my moirail,” Mituna says harshly, snatching up one of the phones. “Thtupid talk devithe, bet it doethn’t even—oh.”

 

“What?” you ask absently, picking at a stray thread on your cloak.

 

“KK,” Mituna says.

 

“What?”

 

“Look here.”

 

You do, and see that Mituna has the phone held up and a gleeful look on his face. You have a feeling he is filming you and crack a grin.

 

“Thmile for the camera,” he says, and you put your hand up to cover the lens.

 

“Stop messing around, Mituna,” you say, and the two of you spend a couple minutes goofing off with the phone before the salestroll clears his throat.

 

“I can get you a good price for that model,” he says, and Mituna flips the phone shut.

 

“No thankth,” he says, and sets it down. You pretend you can’t see the small trace of red and blue sparks that slip the tiny memory chip from the phone up his sleeve.

 

 

 

==>Kankri: Pacify

 

It’s been a few weeks since the Grand Highblood started showing up to your lectures—you mean sermons—you mean discussion groups.

 

He doesn’t do anything, just lurks where he thinks you can’t see him. You’ve stopped being nervous of him. Doesn’t mean Mituna doesn’t stare hard at his hiding place for the duration of the discussion, but you know that if he was going to do anything, he would’ve done it by now. You haven’t quite worked up the courage to approach him afterwards yet, though.

 

The night when everything changes, your skin is buzzing with anticipation. You have nervous energy and don’t know why, as you kiss your mother goodbye and set off with Mituna and Meulin. Meulin kisses your cheek and darts off to run her patrols. Mituna stays with you, glaring at you.

 

“Okay, what?” you ask, and he huffs.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Don’t give me that,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “Spill. What’s bothering you?”

 

He doesn’t take his eyes off your surroundings except for a quick glance your way. “Jutht wondering why you keep thtaying in the thame plathe when you know the Big Guy ith gonna be there.”

 

“He doesn’t bother anyone,” you say.

 

“It’th jutht a matter of time, KK,” Mituna grimaces. “Trutht me, he’th going to thnap, and you’re going to be hith number one target.”

 

You shrug Mituna off.

 

The crowd tonight is mostly psionics, which are a tough crowd to address, because they go through the most crap. Their brains are used to power a lot of electrical grids and generators, and if things come to fighting, they’ll be some of the heaviest-hitting trolls. You look them over and think over what you want to say, and in the back, right out in the open, is the Grand Highblood. But he looks weird. Different.

 

You keep an eye on him as you begin your speech. He doesn’t move and it doesn’t look like anyone else has noticed him, but his eyes are unfocused. Sometimes it looks like he’s swiping at nothing. Sometimes he puts his hands on either side of his head and squeezes. A ripple of unease goes through your guts. You know the beginnings of a highblood freak-out when you see one. Why did he come? Why aren’t you clearing the gathering?

 

Selfishness, you think, as you field questions and arguments. Pure selfish desire to have this troll hear you, even if he’s in no right frame of mind.

 

You suggest an early ending to the lecture, and then the Grand Highblood’s head snaps up, his eyes locking on you.

 

“Well, you heard me,” you say to the protesting crowd. “Go. We can’t be gathered together like this for long, it’ll look suspicious. Get out of here.”

 

Quickly, quickly, you think as the crowd disperses, but then the Grand Highblood moves, standing. In a flash he’s bearing down, straight for you, barreling down other trolls left and right.

 

With a yowl Meulin launches herself directly at him, her claws slashing at his face. Without missing a beat, the Grand Highblood catches her wrist and throws her away from him. Your blood-pusher stutters as she slams into a nearby tree, then evens out when she springs back up. Someone pushes you.

 

“Go,” Mituna says, his eyes glowing, snarl bared. “Don’t jutht thtand there, KK, go! _Go!_ ”

 

You take a few steps, then pause as Mituna’s blast sears its way towards the Grand Highblood with enough force to kill.

 

The Highblood dodges, then kicks Meulin away as she makes a sally for his legs. He roars, eyes foaming red, fangs bared, and this time Meulin hits her head on a rock and doesn’t move. Mituna zips around on his psionics, shooting him with little precision-jolts of power, but you can tell that it’s enraging the Highblood more than incapacitating him, even as his purple blood (so dark and rich, you’ve never seen blood that high before) spatters.

 

You know what must be done, and before Mituna gets seriously injured.

 

Since you were small, you’ve had a way with things that are bigger and angrier than you. Mother has been telling you since you were born that you give good hugs, and sometimes when Mituna is in a funk all you need to do is give him a pat between the horns and he snaps out of it. Meulin has told you countless times that when a beast is charging, you have two options: stand your ground and show it who’s boss, or head for the nearest tree.

 

You aren’t good at climbing trees quickly.

 

You edge towards the Grand Highblood, ignoring Mituna’s shouts. Meulin is stirring ( _thank gog_ ), and in a moment of distraction Mituna is hit by one of the Highblood’s enormous hands and careens out of control in the air. He catches himself before he hits something like a rock or a tree, but you only watch long enough to make sure before your eyes are on the raging troll in front of you.

 

You softly make a quiet soothing sound from your thorax, your hands held palms-up to show you mean no harm. The Grand Highblood swivels to look at you, breath heaving, pupils contracting. He flinches back when you reach to touch him, which is weird, him being so big and you being so small. He snarls a warning.

 

You keep making the steady _shoosh_ and gently pap the air around him, not quite making contact.

 

“You’re okay,” you say, and realize you don’t even know his name. “It’s okay. Nothing here is going to hurt you. You’re safe. Ssshhhh.”

 

One second agonizingly slides into the next as he searches your face. You cautiously touch him, and he jumps, but then holds still. You pap him a little more surely.

 

“Little preacher?” he says, so quietly, and you quirk your mouth.

 

“Call me Kankri,” you say.

 

His eyes are slowly tuning down from red to orange. He rumbles a laugh.

 

“Kurloz,” he rumbles. Is it just you, or is he leaning into your hand?

 

You are yanked off your feet and dragged backwards, and in your place, Meulin slashes the Grand Highblood across the face. He rears back, hands clutching his bleeding face, and howls. Something in you clenches as you are hauled back with psionics.

 

“Run,” Mituna spits, and you see the fresh scarring around his eyes and don’t argue.

 

Meulin joins you in a few moments, her claws stained purple.

 

==>

 

Mother already has the camp packed when you all stumble back, gasping for breath, and once she sees Meulin her mouth goes tight and her face goes white.

 

She hefts as many of the packs onto her back as she can fit, gives a terse order to follow, and starts to march towards the nearby port village. You are still dazed, tripping over your feet. Mituna’s teeth are still on display, his entire face hard and angry. Meulin keeps touching her head and wincing. You should be more worried about them. You are. You are terrified that Meulin has a concussion and that Mituna pushed himself too far.

 

Part of you is still far away, calming down a highblood you knew was going to lash out one day but convinced you he wasn’t.

 

As it turns out, that’s the end of your preaching on this shore for a long time. Mother buys passage on a boat, and puts all of you on it. You’re going far away now, to a strange land you don’t know and new trolls who haven’t heard your message.

 

You won’t forget Kurloz, but you will let him drift to the back of your mind. For now, as you look at the water and breathe the salt air, you will think about your message, how you can best get it across next time.

 

(Meulin did have a concussion, and Mituna did push himself too far. You care for them both with tenderness, because they saved your skin and you know that they’d readily die for you. You don’t deserve that. But they’d do it anyway.)

 

(You don’t think about Kurloz for a very long time.)

 

==>Kurloz: Pass 2 Eventful Sweeps

 

==>The Critical Pale Scene

 

Kankri looks different to you, another creature entirely, as he paces and fumes.

 

"You don't get it," he says, furious, and turns to you. "You dont—"

 

You watch him, placid. He swears, runs his claws through his hair so it sticks up funny. You feel urge to smooth it down but got the sense this ain't the time.

 

"I visited a village once," Kankri says. "There was this clade, a whole clade of lowbloods—" he swears again, "—warmbloods, living together. A maroonblood rejected a blueblood's concupiscient advance, and the sack of shameglobes waited until the whole clade was back in their hive. Then he and his buddies bolted the whole hive down and set it on fire."

 

Any other troll—any other troll in the universe—woulda told you that, you'da laughed. But his eyes...his eyes are fierce and hard and not wavering an inch from yours, his hands clenched in fists and he isn't letting you look away. You don't. You look. You know he wants you to understand, he wants you to pick up what he's laying out.

 

"Countless trolls, trolls I knew, trolls I befriended—they were slaughtered like beasts, like they weren't even trolls, right before my eyes," he says, and his voice pitches down, hoarse, like begging, and he steps closer. You watch, frozen in wonder. "Not just warmbloods. Coldbloods, too. I saw a seadweller strung up and gutted by a band of clowns because they thought it was funny. I saw a brownblood who had his head ripped off because he didn't bow low enough for the blueblood's liking. I saw—so much—"

 

You notice his eyes are filling up with tears, but before you can parse the color he wipes them away, angry, unbearably sad, desperate.

 

"And you," Kankri says, voice like his face, angered, sad, desperate, begging and cursing, "you _laugh_."

 

You open mouth. Shut it. Open it again. No sound.

 

"You are more than this," he says, like he wants to believe it. "You are not a killing machine. You are not an _animal_." He grasps your shoulders, ain't no troll ever touched you like he touches you and you look into his face like there ain't no paint in the way. "Do you understand? Do you get it? Do you see why this matters? Why our system needs to change?"

 

You...

 

You...

 

Something in you stirs. It rings with a quiet, soft little noise, so soft you'd miss it if you were drugged or laughing.

 

"Think about it," Kankri says, quiet, desperate. "Every troll living by his merits, not by the perks his blood color gets him. Every troll free to live his life by a code that will protect him if he is wronged and will punish him if he injures another. Every troll—every color—together in a circle, in a brotherhood that says if one falls, they lift that fallen troll up and help him along. Where differences are praised, where it's not a crime to be yourself." His fingers dig into your shoulders. He gives you a shake. "Where warmbloods and coldbloods can live together in peace and not have to be so scared of each other. Can quadrant who they want. Can make lives together without stigma."

 

And then the heavens open and the righteous truth of this troll's words flow into you, swirling like blood in the water, like paint in the air—you see it all, you see it so clearly, this miracle, this brother, by your side, all trolls working together for the glory of all, not the glory of one.

 

You take his wrists in your hands.

 

"Brother," you say, voice soft, "I understand."

 

You tilt your nug forward until it's forehead-to-forehead, and he shakes off your hands to put his palms—his hot palms, those hands what make even the monster in your heel—on your cheeks.

 

You keep it up like a mantra as he softly wipes tears and paint away—you understand, you understand, you do, you do, you do—and he sees you as no one ever has, your face is bare and you don't mind, you kneel and lift your face to him like in prayer, like holy blaspheming what it is.

 

"Then help me," he says, gentle, sweet. "Kurloz—" Oh, the passion, the warmth that fills when he says your hatchname— "Kurloz, if people hear you and me together, nothing could stop us. We could change everything. We could make it all—we could make it all equal. We could even change Her mind."

 

A thin pane of reality slips betwixt you and your beloved. You sit back, out of reach of his hands, and rub out the tears he missed.

 

"Her mind," you say, short but not unkind, "WON'T CHANGE."

 

"But—"

 

"Brother," you say, and just to say it again, "BROTHER. Listen now to me. Her mind won't change. Her mind is as a SHARK. Her reach is MANY-ARMED."

 

You rub your face, feel smears of paint, look your miracle in the eyes.

 

"Come with me."

 

His brows quirk in confusion. You lean back on your knees, take his hands in your own.

 

"COME WITH ME," you repeat. "Between you and I, we can ESCAPE. WE CAN LEAVE IT ALL. I know of ways. WAYS MANIFOLD THERE ARE TO LEAVE. Only say you'll come."

 

His eyes widen. Jaw slackens.

 

"You'd ask me to leave?" he says. "You'd ask me to leave—leave my family? Leave my work?"

 

"BRING 'EM," you say. "Bring them what are dear to you, for as they are dear to you, SO ARE THEY DEAR TO ME. But you have it all wrong, brother. SOME TROLLS ARE ANIMALS. Some trolls are wicked beasts. HER MIND WON'T CHANGE. And theirs won't either." You bring his hands to your face, kiss the knuckles, rest your cheek atop in holy obeisance. "BUT COME WITH ME. Come with me and a new world we can make, you and I. COME WITH ME and we will see NEW SIGHTS. What trolls believe on you, THEY CAN ATTEND. What trolls don't CAN STAY HERE. Brother, oh, brother, BROTHER, beloved mine, RUN AWAY WITH ME, and together we'll be."

 

His look is pity. His look is disappointment. He loosens fingers, takes your face in hand, smooths thumbs across cheekbones, then leans forward. Your eyes flutter shut and you feel the press of his mouth against your eyelids, one, then the other.

 

"Oh, Kurloz," Kankri says. "I can't." He straightens. "If I can make you believe me, then I can make others see, too. My work here won't be done until every troll has heard my message."

 

Your diamond-dust beloved smiles. A little crack, a hole, appears right in the corner of your blood-pusher.

 

"When my work here is done," he says, "I will see you again."

 

He turns.

 

"BROTHER."

 

He stops. You forget what all was in your pan, but a whisper, like a ticking clock, echoes in your ears.

 

"I'm sorry," you say, and he smiles again, gentle, understanding, though how could he know, HOW COULD HE KNOW, the horrors you know will come if he doesn't run, the horrors they will inflict on his flesh and his spirit?

 

But he smiles, and turns, and walks.

 

In your late sweeps you will think on that and shiver, how you never forced him, how you shoulda PICKED HIM UP and CARRIED HIM AWAY.

 

But he wouldn't have thanked you.

 

You say the words you never got the chance to say sometimes to the air, because the next time you see him, it will be the last.

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes:
> 
> \- I took a lot of cues from my work, And All The Wretched Messiahs (https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042495); this was basically an expansion of that, modified some to fit the Kingdombent canon but not much.
> 
> \- This was basically supposed to be pale Troll Twilight. 
> 
> \- Title is based on the Mumford and Sons song, mainly because that song is supposedly the precursor to Broken Crown and it amused me to have the parallel. 
> 
> \- Thank you for reading and I treasure all of you.


End file.
